


my heart is a ghost town

by feyluke



Series: 5sos shadowhunter au [8]
Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, M/M, New Years, Shadowhunter AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-07-14 00:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7143803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyluke/pseuds/feyluke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: A hungry ghost, a holiday, ice cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart is a ghost town

**Author's Note:**

> a new years au malum that i wrote for cay to follow the halloween malum (:

you sort of know the drill by now

you check out a graveyard together; a house that’s actually haunted; the worn books in the downtown library that hide themselves to mundanes but scream, tremble, or burn if you open them - michael has shown you much of the paranormal world, at least the parts accessible to rogue warlocks and human teenage boys

it wasn’t until the seventh haunting that you learned his name. you eagerly gave your own too soon - an imbalance of power you won’t make the mistake of giving away again

 _michael._ you weren’t normally one for boys, except maybe the exceptionally pretty ones (and michael was a new type of pretty with his masculine jaw and dark plum lipstick) but his name glides over your tongue like warm caramel when he finally surrenders his name. for one with such rough edges - the blue spiked hair, the black horns, the flashing eyes and scowls, the walls built up like concrete - you didn’t expect an angel’s name to come from his lips

“i’m michael,” he had said, without prompting, leaning against a tombstone. you don’t know which graveyard you were in, but you remember the position of the moon and that it was three quarters full. you remember the light fog that surrounded the tombstones and how it made your own head cloudy, and the cat that hid behind a fence post, its yellow eyes flashing

you remember his long painted fingernails (like a girl’s, you couldn’t help thinking, and feeling guilty for after) tapping nervously into the gravestone, the only indication of his reservation. his moment of weakness, shown only to you

_trust_

it left a warm weight in your stomach for a week. you dreamed about it - of michael revealing his name, his eyes burning into yours, and wings sprouting from his back even though you knew without being told that he would never have wings; that it wasn’t allowed

it’s christmas, with your family gathered in the living room decorated with tinsel and cut-out snowflakes and laughter, when you catch yourself thinking of michael as your angel

it’s new years eve when you stumble to bed to find a note tucked under your window:

**“happy new years. homestead. -m”**

and you’re totally drunk and ready to crash but it’s michael and _you had no idea homestead ice cream parlour was haunted what the fuck -_

so you grab your coat and boots and head out. you maybe down a warm beer from under your bed first, because you can feel your nerves flare at the ends when you think about seeing michael. homestead is only a ten minute walk - thank god - but it’s long enough and by the time you get to the ice cream parlour you feel sick and cold and you just know your nose is bright red with the freezing air and that doesn’t normally bother you but for some reason it does right now and -

and you push open the door, which is unlocked even though the parlour is closed. you belatedly realise the lights are on, too

michael is standing behind the counter, and grins when he sees you

“hey,” he greets with a nod of his head. his hair is flat today, tucked underneath a black beanie. there are purple bags under his eyes and he looks paler than usual. michael brandishes an ice cream scoop. “i’m starved and need sugar. what’s your favourite flavour?”

“uh,” you eloquently say, “tiger tiger?”

and so there you are, with a cone of tiger tiger, with micheal sitting across from you with black cherry (and a couple sandwiches he must have dug out of the fridge). and it’s different, so different. there are no ghouls moaning; no ominously creaking floorboards; no shadows that you know aren’t just shadows… no michael casting a glamour to be invisible one second and visible the next..

everything is as it seems. michael has been completely solid and tangible for 15 minutes (you’ve been checking your phone and counting), and you seem to be doing no more than eating ice cream with a very starved michael at your favourite ice cream place

you don’t want to break the silence - the tender moment where you exist only to each other and nothing more - but you find yourself asking: “do you have a cell phone number?” by which you mean _is there any way you can contact me for midnight seances other than the archaic leaving-notes-in-hidden-places thing?? also are you OKAY?_

michael smirks (two months later and he still doesn’t talk much, you realise) and writes into a napkin with his nail, which is painted the same royal blue as his hair. the paper burns under his touch, and when he pushes the napkin to you, it holds a charred number

you take the napkin, fold it carefully, and try not to smile too big, just enough to let him know you’re pleased

it takes a moment, but michael smiles back - not a smirk, not a you-stupid-human half-smile, not the wistful smile you sometimes catch when he thinks you’re not looking - no, a new warm smile that you arrogantly let yourself belief he created just for you

**Author's Note:**

> what is wrong with michael??? 5 months later and we still just dont know


End file.
